The next morning…
After Strike prepared his infamous "Nighty-Night cocktail" and gave it to the little one and her rodent, he and Heat were off.
Despite the cocktail, Strike wanted to make his rounds quickly. He felt uneasy about leaving the two alone, as did Heat.
This time, Strike played wheelman to allow Heat the opportunity to play around with the laptop a little.
"Okay, Strike. What's gonna be up today? You said we have three vital points to hit in a very short amount of time," said Heat.
"First, I need you to send an email to Hiro," replied Strike. He was smoking a cigarette, driving with one hand, comfortably leaning as far back as the seat would go to accommodate his long legs. Talk about gangsta lean…
"Hiro? You mean that Italian cat we met at Disco Fashion?"
"Yup. I found out he's quite a computer nerd- no offense- and I'm sure I can talk him into hacking into Kinoshima's database."
"Yeah, he owes you for spilling that drink on your favorite suit," laughed Heat.
"Hell, that waste of sperm owes me for just existing," smirked Strike. "When he got mad at me for cussin' him out, he threw a Polaroid at me like some bootleg Johnny Cage!"
"Yeah, then you totally kicked his ass, talking about how the picture gave you a paper cut… and a rash!"
The two laughed like hell.
"It must be sad to know your very presence on earth is irrelevant," tittered Strike.
"Damn, essa, that was just cruel!"
"Who am I again?"
"Yeah, yeah okay. We gonna meet up with him?"
"Yeah, let's meet him at the bistro on the East Side around noon. That way we're still fairly close to the hotel, and there will be enough people there to keep me from going off on him and starting a shoot out."
"I'm glad you plan ahead enough to use your temper as a factor," smiled Heat. He started to send the email:
Hiro:
Very lucrative offer waiting for you at Piku-Piku Bistro, Noon. Please have a little respect for yourself and show up. Remember, you owe someone a HUGE favor. If you choose to decline, there's no guarantee that tomorrow is yours. Thanks.
"Okay. It's been sent. What now? It's almost 10AM."
"I know a certain somebody who's here in Osaka on a 'business trip' as well," replied Strike. "Another favor at my disposal… Remember Pinky?"
"That chick that the Kings had at your birthday party last year?"
Strike shuddered. He loved T & A as much as the next man, but he was EXTREMELY picky about what he wanted. Hell, that's why he was single now. And, unfortunately for Pinky, she didn't fit his description. Why would he want to do a stripper, anyways? He couldn't have cared less about her career choices, but her reputation was also quite a turn-off. He started to remember it all…
**********
The Kings were throwing him a blowout birthday bash at his favorite club. All of his 'family' was there, with all kinds of booze and drugs for the guests. (Strike has always been a weed man himself, and everyone suspects that he is without a liver because he is never seen without alcohol.) The DJ was doing an excellent job of keeping people on the dance floor, and needless to say, the party was the shit… Until, without warning, a huge cake was rolled in. Strike was sitting down at the bar, and everyone gathered around him. He was already intoxicated as it was; he was actually smiling in anticipation.
After everyone damn near embarrassed him by singing "Happy Birthday", out of the cake popped a curvaceous dark-skinned female donning pink harem girl attire. Even her hair was pink. (Strike hated pink, but he let it slide. It was obviously some kind of symbol of the stripper's femininity…) Her body was banging, he gave her that, even though he suspected a little silicone here or there…
She danced around, undulating and belly dancing, clicking a hypnotic beat with her castanets. All the guys were making catcalls, and Heat, who was sitting next to him, noticed Strike's blank expression.
"What's wrong with you??" Heat hissed. "Look at this chick! I thought you liked strippers!"
Strike sat wordlessly, and began to make it seem like he was enjoying himself. He leaned back against the bar a little, grabbed his crotch, licked his lips, and gave the stripper a devilish grin that would make any female's draws melt off. (Yes, draws.)
Even the stripper's face turned a little red, what could be seen of it due to the veil over her nose and mouth, but she continued her dance, slowly beginning to undress herself.
"Hey, can't the birthday boy get a lap dance?" requested Heat. All the guys cheered in agreement.
The stripper pulled back her veil, and revealed a thick set of pink-painted lips. (Head-givers, if you ask Strike) At that very moment, Strike was glad he was never without shades; his eyes may have given him away… because in her face he saw something he did NOT like…
"Say, babe… what's your name?" he asked, without even trying to charm her.
The stripper straddled his lap and smiled. In his ear, she whispered, "My name is Pinky. Pinky Diamond…" She dismounted him and turned her back to him, inches away from his crotch, wiggling and jiggling to the loud tunes of Bass music now playing in the background.
"TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!!!" chanted the bar full of horny gangbangers, holding up all kinds of money.
"I'll let the birthday boy do that," Pinky smiled.
Strike reached up and unhooked her scanty bra with expert precision, one-handed. He pulled the straps from her shoulders and the bar went wild. Pinky turned around to face Strike, shaking her assets in his face.
Yup. They were silicone all right.
Pinky continued to dance around the bar area, collecting all the money being waved in her direction. Strike put down his bottle of Olde English, and began to wonder exactly why she hadn't taken her large, puffy pants off yet.
She let a few guys drink from her navel, and put on one hell of a table dance, but still the pants hadn't come off. Pinky was either some kind of super tease, or maybe she had some kind of ass implants that the scars hadn't healed from yet.
Strike, in his inebriated glory, wanted to see ass. Plain and simple. Heat sensed some kind of annoyance from his boy, but said nothing. Hell, he was getting impatient, too.
"And now, my special surprise for the birthday boy," purred Pinky, as she sauntered towards him.
Strike bit his lower lip, slowly. The devilish smile crept back onto his lips. "I gotta stand up for this," he said, and approached her. As soon as Pinky was about to finally pull her pants off…
Strike immediately grabbed her throat and slung her to the ground, gripping tighter and straddling her to pin her down more. He pulled out his shiny chrome Desert Eagle and placed the barrel directly in the middle of her forehead.
Everybody gasped. The music stopped, and mouths dropped wide open...
"Damn, Strike what are you—?" tried the bartender. He was shut up permanently when Strike fired a shot right through his forehead.
Everybody backed up. (That's why the smart ones stayed quiet.)
"Who sent you?" demanded Strike.
"What are you talking about?!?" tried Pinky.
"Don't play dumb with me, bitch!" snarled Strike. He ripped her pants off with the hand that was on her neck, and pulled a Colt Python from the hidden holster on her right leg. With one hand, he unlocked the clip and dismantled the gun. He then picked up the clip and checked out the bullet on top… It was a hollow tip.
"You're a professional," growled Strike, putting the clip in his pocket and returning his hand to her throat. "I ain't gonna ask you again. Who the fuck sent you?"
Pinky almost… aw hell, she pissed on herself. She looked over to the dead bartender, whose body slid to the floor behind the bar. Needless to say, she was paralyzed with fear.
"Nobody sent me…" she tried.
Strike applied more pressure to her neck. "Six million ways to die, bitch. Choose one. Better yet, two."
Pinky couldn't breathe. As she was running out of air, she sputtered, "Okay, okay!"
Strike let her neck go. "Talk. Fast. My fucking finger is itching."
"I really… really don't know who wanted me to kill you… Some guy called me a week ago and told me he wanted you dead, he wired the money to my account… He didn't leave his name; he just said I'd get extra money after the job was done… Please… please don't kill me!" begged Pinky. Tears were streaming down her face. She had not expected this from him at all.
Strike put his Desert Eagle away, and stood up over her. "Stand the fuck up, bitch," he snarled.
Slowly, the extremely shaken Pinky pulled herself up. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked, and covered her nakedness with her arms.
Strike shot her a wicked smile. "I own you now," he said firmly. "Don't try to run, don't try to hide; I will find you, and I will kill you. Meet me at this club tomorrow night at 8; if you don't show up, you're as good as dead. Now get the hell outta my sight before I forget why I'm sparing your life in the first place."
Pinky grabbed her clothes and ran out without missing a beat.
Strike turned around and faced his gang. He gave them all a good once-over. Heat moved away from the group and stood next to Strike, and he was obviously too uncomfortable for his own good.
"Whoever is responsible for this… watch your back," declared Strike. "For now, it's still my birthday. Can I get some fuckin' music?!?"
And the party started back like nothing happened. One of the other bartenders cleaned away the mess of his co-worker, and started serving drinks without so much as a question. He valued his life, point blank.
**********
"I'm sorry about that shit again," said Heat. It was like he knew the flashback was playing in Strike's head.
"Damn, don't apologize. I got the bastard who was responsible, one of my own fucking 'family' members… I had suspected him since day one. He outgrew his usefulness to me anyway," replied Strike with a slight sneer, and took another pull from his Newport.
"You never collected your favor from her, did you?" smirked Heat knowingly.
Strike made a face like 'WHAT?!' glanced over at Heat. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Man, you know," smiled Heat, pursing his lips and giving Strike the People's Eyebrow.
"Are you… are you asking me if I hit that?!" asked Strike, horror plastered all over his face.
"Dude, you can tell me; hell, we all have needs..." Heat looked like he wanted to fall out in laughter.
"HELL NAW, I DIDN'T HIT THAT!! I can't believe you're insinuating that I placed any part of my anatomy in betwixt anything on her body!!! You couldn't pay me enough to… engage in any kind of… relations with THAT ho!"
"Why she gotta be a ho, essa? Just 'cause she's a stripper?"
"No, because she IS a ho. Just about every last one of the Kings has tapped that and passed her on to the next member like a plate of fried chicken at a banquet. All strippers aren't hoes that I know of. Not that I really care, either…"
Heat got extremely quiet and kept typing away at his laptop. He did his damage… he tried to hide his smile. At this point, Strike didn't know what Heat was doing, but he wasn't terribly worried either. Now he was going to have to meditate and think cleansing thoughts… (Ah, meditation… Lysol for the soul…)
"Hey look, there's the building she's at," said Strike.
Heat looked up at the skyscrapers and didn't know what from where. "Why is she there?" he asked.
"She had a sniping assignment. Of course, I have to know about these things. I wouldn't want us both to be after the same person; then I'd have to do away with her. We wouldn't want that quite yet, would we?"
Heat laughed. "Can't argue with that!"
"Let's go ahead and pay her a visit, shall we?"
"Hell, I'm up for it… Let's do this…"